


Second Chances

by AgenderMaine (AngelusErrare)



Series: Hello Again [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Afterlife, Comfort, because Maine deserves to be happy, because the TEAM deserves to be happy, canon character death, life after death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelusErrare/pseuds/AgenderMaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Wash and the Reds & Blues defeat him, after he falls into the lake, Maine wakes up to whatever it is that comes after death.</p><p>Maine wakes up to his team. To his <i>family</i>.</p><p>(May not ever be "finished", but I'll still publish bits of it as they come.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

"Is that really him?"

"Hey, give him some room to breathe. He's been through a lot."

Instead of drowning, instead of ice and water in his lungs, frozen limbs thrashing in painfully cold water, he wakes up to voices. Familiar voices. 

Voices he shouldn't be hearing.

More than that, he wakes up to being... himself. For the first time in years, there is no more blinding headache. No more drive for power. No more anger. No more fire burning in every part of his head and body.

No more pain. The puncture wounds from Tex and Wash don't hurt anymore. The place the aqua soldier stabbed him, where freezing water rushed in to fill his suit... that pain is gone too. The old ache in his throat that has been part of him for so many years... it's as if it never existed. Or maybe he's just so numb from the water he can't feel it anymore.

A masculine voice breaks through his confused fog. "Maine, can you hear me buddy?"

That name. That name is familiar too. 

"Maybe he doesn't remember." A female voice this time. "Or... maybe he's still..."

"No," the male says too quickly. "The Meta is _gone_. The A.I. aren't here. _Sigma_ isn't here. It's him."

He knows the voices, but something in the female one tugs at him. Pleading. "But what if it wasn't Sigma doi--"

" _It wasn't his fault, Michigan._ " the male voice snaps, then softens. "It wasn't his fault."

"I... sorry, North."

It can't be. He doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve to see them again. Not after everything he's done. After the members of Freelancer-- his team and others-- he murdered. It-- "Can't."

"He spoke!"

"Hey, buddy, you hear us?" That's York's voice, close to his ear, and for a second he thinks he feels something ruffle the hair on his head. A dream, then. His head should be shaved; Sigma forced him to in order to put the Meta symbol on display. He's still in the water, unconscious, and in his dying moments he's dreaming of the very friends he killed, or failed to protect, or just wasn't there for.

Then York speaks again. "Take it easy, man. It's always a little disorienting when you wake up." 

A hand touches his arm and Maine's first instinct is to snarl, "Don't touch me."

The hand quickly retreats and he realizes he spoke. Actual words, said out loud, in a familiar low, growly voice. He hasn't been able to speak since...

He opens his eyes to... gray.

Steel gray and hospital lights and faces. So many faces, some easier to identify than others. Everything is familiar, but it can't be. It's just a dream. He can't be in the infirmary-- the _Mother of Invention_ was destroyed. Crashed and irreparable, and even though the Project had other ships... no, there's the name on the far wall. It's just a dream, just a horrible-wonderful dream. He can't be on the ship. It's _gone_. 

And that can't be York's grinning face to his left, both blue-grey eyes miraculously clear. Can't be North's on his right, most likely the owner of the hand that reached out to him, no sign of the damage that should have been all over his face when the Meta crushed his helmet. There are others in the room, Agents he trained with, shared mealtimes and missions with, sitting on other medical beds or in visitor chairs watching him.

Agents that, in many cases, he killed.

Delaware offers him an uncertain smile when their eyes meet, nodding. There's no trace of the slit throat she should have, the wound he-- no, _Sigma_ gave her. They left her in a ditch, choking on her own blood.

Illinois doesn't make the attempt to be friendly. They weren't close before Sigma murdered him anyway; there's no lost love there. He doesn't acknowledge the glare, looking past Illinois to the left.

Michigan and Montana are together, by the door, both looking like they don't want to be here in the first place. He doesn't care about Michigan, but Montana... hurts a little. She wasn't as close to him as York, or really anyone on his team was, but he would still consider her some level of friend before the... incident.

Florida's easy smile is comforting, the older man leaning against the headboard of an identical medical bed to his left behind York. The impossibly bright green eyes have a mischievous gleam even now, though there are scars Maine doesn't remember him having under his eye, pale marks standing out on dark skin.

Wyoming's almost a surprise, sitting on the bed beside Florida with his feet on the back of York's chair. For a second, Maine wonders if maybe it's some other Agent, someone from another Freelancer team. Then he opens his mouth.

"We were wondering if you'd ever wake up, old chap." 

Yeah. Definitely Wyoming. The ridiculous mustache isn't necessarily a dead giveaway, but no other Freelancer agent has a British accent, something the team often teased him for.

But his thoughts jerk back to North. Maine swings his head to the right so fast it almost hurts, realizes there is no mask over his face, nothing to keep North from seeing the pleading in his eyes. All his time with the team, he's barely spoken, hardly wanted to, but now, in this dream or whatever the hell it is, he has to say something.

"North."

The blonde smiles, blue eyes twinkling. "Yeah, Maine. It's me."

"I'm sorry."

The smile doesn't falter, only seems more understanding. "It's alright, bud," North murmurs, reaching to pat Maine on the arm. "It wasn't your fault."

Maine doesn't cringe back from the contact, doesn't shove his friend away. This shouldn't be happening. He doesn't deserve forgiveness, shouldn't be given it, shouldn't even be seeing them here. It is a cruel dying dream.

He is still laying down. Cautiously, half expecting it not to work, he pulls his arms toward him, pushes up into a sitting position and looks around once more to confirm it. "We're on the ship."

"More or less," York explains. "It's... familiar... to all of us. There are other places; we're not trapped on the _Mother_ , but it sort of acts as a..."

"Hub," North supplies, and York nods.

"Yeah, a central hub. Something we all know, so we're not totally lost when we wake up."

"It even has a bar," Wyoming rumbles with a laugh. "Didn't know it was possible to get drunk after death."

Death. Of course. They're dead, and he's-- "Dying."

York and North exchange a look, something passing between them that Maine can't keep up with. Finally, York murmurs, "Maine... you're dead. You drowned."


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maine still can't fully believe this isn't just some sort of hyper-realistic dying dream, can't fully believe he's with his family again.

It's easier for Maine to grasp the idea of being dead than it is that he's _here_ , with his team, or that nobody has re-killed him (if that's even possible), or that his friends are looking at him with such gentle understanding in their eyes.

... _most_ of his friends.

"Where's Carolina?" His own voice sounds so unfamiliar after all these years, but he has to ask, has to know. His last memory of her is watching a blue and red blur disappear into the distance below, after Sigma flung her over the cliff. He knows she had to have survived, knew she'd jumped out of planes that were higher in the air than that, but he has no clue about _after_.

York's smile is equal parts comfort and disappointment, but he doesn't get to explain. Kentucky walks through the door, dull orange armor looking cleaner than it has in decades, and laughs. "Beatin' my damn record, that's what she's doing!"

Kentucky's record. A joke he and Delaware started about living long enough to consider retirement. Kentucky being the oldest on the team, it made sense. He'd jokingly threatened that if anyone but Delaware tried to "beat" it, he'd beat them over the head. The weapon changed each time he made the threat-- a helmet, a food tray, his own decrepit bones-- but it was never a real worry. Delaware was the one everyone needed to be wary of when it came to Kentucky's "record". 

She never beat it. Sigma saw to that. To Maine's knowledge, she died before Kentucky, which means the old coot will want to have words with him. Or kill him again, if such a thing is a possibility. Knowing Kentucky, he'll find a way. For now the older Agent winks at him, turns, makes his way to Delaware's side and affectionately kisses the top of her head as only he can. Delaware has stabbed men for less, but her best friend gets a pass on almost anything.

York stands, offers Maine his hand, and almost as soon as Maine takes it he's on his feet, crushed against the shorter man's chest in a tight hug and North is laughing behind him. Only Carolina, C.T., and Wash ever got away unscathed from hugging Maine, but in all honesty he's still too confused to fall back into old routines of punching in return for unwanted contact. Still can't fully believe this isn't just some sort of hyper-realistic dying dream.

Can't believe how _real_ York feels against him, even after the lockpicker pulls back, still grinning, and turns to Florida. "I'll pay you later."

Florida's smile is a dangerous flash of teeth, and Maine has a moment to feel amused that he is once again the subject of wagers (what was it this time, whether he'd punch York for touching him?) before a small black and brown blur hurls through the door past Michigan and Montana, shoving York aside and hitting him square in the chest, knocking him back down onto the bed with a crash.

Instinct kicks in and his hands are at unarmored hips, nails digging into the black bodysuit for purchase as he grabs and shoves and lean arms lock around his neck. Head turning toward an elbow, chin digging into a pressure point, and then everything freezes as the much smaller person tackling him screams, " _Maine!_ "

Connie.

The struggle to remove her ceases, his eyes finally focusing properly on the woman on top of him, the woman who _left them_. Who couldn't trust them not to stop her. And he knows it was for a good cause, remembers Sigma scanning Freelancer radio channels and hearing her try to explain. Remembers he thought she was _lucky_ she died before Sigma took him over. Remembers how her death sparked a rebellion he would have been part of if Sigma hadn't used the chaos to help break down Maine's defenses. Remembers so much and hurts.

Above all, he is grateful to see her.

If he by some miracle still deserves to see them and she wasn't afforded the same, he would have tracked down whoever the hell was in charge of this afterlife and shown them the same treatment he had that fucker who cost him his speech and was indirectly responsible for the entire Meta catastrophe in the first place. Connie deserves a happy ending more than he does. Connie deserves to reunite with her family more than he does.

And they are a family, this team. He releases her hips, instead raising his arms to her waist for a proper hug. Connie is one of three people he tolerates hugs from, Carolina and Wash being the others. It's hard to deny the little sister of the team, and he wouldn't want to if he could. 

Dream or not, dead or not, he will savor this for as long as he can.


	3. Unfinished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maine realizes there is still some unfinished business to take care of.

When Connie lets him go, Maine pushes himself back up, pretending he can't see the smirks painting York's and Florida's faces. He _does_ roll his shoulders, subtly reminding them of his easy strength, the natural power in his body that made him the group muscle for a damn good reason.

It's an old motion, an old warning, but there's no real threat behind it. His team knows that; Montana... not so much. He won't let himself frown, can't show how it hurts to watch her and Michigan all but run from the room, to see them walk past in the observation window without glancing back his way. North's eyes narrow; Maine realizes he has been watching the other two Agents since before Connie came in, and the set of his jaw says he has several things he wants to say to the pair.

Montana's preferred method of problem solving is with a shotgun, generally one to the face. Maine really hopes it isn't possible for them to die a second time, because North can't count on South to have his bac--

South.

Many things run through Maine's head at the thought of the female Dakota twin-- none of them nice. Hotheaded, overconfident, terminally jealous South. South, who repaid her brother's care and concern with snark and distance. South, always partnered with North and always bitter about it, always trying to strike off on her own.

South, catching their attention only to tell Sigma he could have her brother if he let her go free. South leading North so he would be in just the right spot for the Meta to take a clear shot at him.

He doesn't feel the slightest remorse for knocking her out after Sigma killed North, but he does regret that Sigma upheld his end of the bargain and let her go. If he hadn't, South wouldn't have gone on to betray Wash as well, shooting him in the back and tricking Sigma into thinking she planted explosive charges on his "corpse" so he would go after Wash instead of her.

He _does_ feel warm approval at his former partner for killing the backstabbing bitch himself, but he knows how Wash nurses grudges. The moment South betrayed him she had all but guaranteed their next meeting would result in a severe case of bullet-head-itis.

South had been so much easier to deal with before the damned A.I. had been thrown into the equation. Less bitchy, less confrontational, and more an actual part of the team. She used to be a friend, but Maine doesn't want to mend any of the damage there. "Setting your brother up to die" kind of falls into the category of _things that will get you on Maine's shitlist_.

He isn't one for subtlety and the team would freak out if he was. "Where's South?" he growls out, and North and York exchange a look.

"Hiding," Florida says helpfully. York sighs.

"She disappeared when you showed up here," Connie explains, glancing at North as if for permission. The male Dakota just watches them, eyes unreadable, lips pursed in a grim line. "She looked scared shitless."

_Good_ , Maine thinks. So she had the brains to know he was going to beat her to within an inch of her un-life and ran for it.

His legs are unsteady when he stands up again, but that goes quickly. Hate is one hell of a stabilizer, and he shoulders past York perhaps a little roughly only to have North grab his arm. The Dakota twin frowns at the expression on Maine's face, but sighs. He knows Maine too well.

"Don't go too hard on her," he cautions, letting Maine shake off his hand. "We already talked about it."

If that talk didn't involve throwing punches, Maine doesn't want to hear it. That isn't what he says, of course. He knows North would never hurt his sister no matter how much she deserves it. So instead of snapping at the Dakota for being too fucking forgiving, Maine grunts, "I'll think about it."

He won't. North knows that.

He still lets him go.


	4. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maine finds South and beats her to within an inch of her life.
> 
> Or, that was the plan, anyway.

He finds South in the rec room, sitting on the massive grey sofa with her head in her hands. The lights are off, but the glow from the T.V. still illuminates the room enough for Maine to see the slump of her shoulders, the half-eaten box of chocolates beside her, the completely empty bottle of vodka knocked over by her feet-- if he finds out a way to kill her again, it'll be one hell of a last meal.

Personally, he would have gone for whiskey.

He clears his throat-- _can_ clear his throat-- and waits for the plastered Dakota to acknowledge Death advancing on her. It doesn't take long for her to raise her head, but by the time she does he stands directly in front of her, fists clenched by his sides.

"Y'know what it feelsh like."

Maine doesn't have a damned clue what she's talking about, but South continues before he can decide if he wants to ask.

"Hurtin' shomeone y'care about. Relly bad." She pauses to take another swig of her poison from a bottle resting on the side table, then offers it to him. "I think I know how y'felt. After York, I mean."

"That's different," Maine snarls out, but South just shrugs.

"He f'rgave you too. 'n' y'blew him th'fuck up, right?" When South looks up at him, Maine can't decide if her eyes are red from drinking or crying. There are dried salt tracks on her cheeks, but the amount of booze in that tiny body makes either a plausible cause.

It doesn't make him want to punch her any less. 

"Fucking different," he snaps. "Accident." He only wanted to stop that bitch new recruit. Wyoming gave him the live rounds, and the Director gave those to _him_. His temper and pride had gotten the best of him and he _knew_ he'd fucked up when he threw the damn grenade, but it was an _accident_ getting York hurt! "You set North up."

"Y'know how awful it feelsh? That he f-fucking hugged me 'n' said he f'rgivsh me? Bet he f'rgave you too."

"Different," Maine repeats, fists aching from how tightly they're clenched. "You had a choice. Control. Coward," he hisses, ripping the bottle from her hands and throwing it. He'll deal with the mess of shattered glass later. "Fucking _coward!_ "

"TELL ME SHOMETHING I DON'T KNOW!" South shrieks at him, startling him enough that he falls silent. "I f-fucking shet him up t'get killed! I w-watched you shoot him, washed you cr-crush his _fucking_ skull!" The tears start up again, but the younger agent keeps glaring at him. "When Wash showed up? Tried t' _talk_ about it? I felt sho fucking awful!"

"You set him up too!"

" _And you took th'fucking bait!_ "

That sets him off again. "I didn't have a fucking choice! He took over my fucking head, South. You know what _that_ feels like?! Or were you so busy being jealous of North having Theta that you didn't fucking bother to realize what the _consequences_ of the A.I. were? _North and York were fucking **lucky** , South._" When she opens her mouth to cut him off she finds she can't speak. Thick, pissed off fingers around your throat have a way of doing that. "I'm. Not. Done."

He grunts in pain when her knee slams upwards into his groin, but doesn't loosen his grip. "Three out of six's pretty shit odds, Dakota. Even if you had been implanted, gotten along well with your A.I, that's still a forty percent failure rate that included Wash losing his fucking mind and me losing control over my own body. And don't you even try bringing up Texas; she was one of them, and she _still_ had issues keeping Omega in check.

"What if Theta and Sigma were switched? Would you still be so jealous of North then?" A moment of sick clarity flashes through South's eyes, and he drops her back onto the couch. "Everything he touched _burned_ , every memory, every thought, and every time I tried to resist it would spread until my whole body was nothing but that fucking fire. I couldn't fucking fight him off, South. And he _taunted_ me when he killed North, when Theta and Eta and Iota were all screaming in our head--"

"You shaid 'our'," South mutters, rubbing her throat. "What do you mean, 'our head'?"

"The A.I. had access to our every thought, every memory, South. They were keyed into our armor and into our fucking brains. Once they were implanted there was no separation except if they powered down. Not blinked out, completely off. Theta and Delta powered down when North and York asked them to. That little fucking floating Satan never gave me the luxury."

Out of steam, Maine shakes his head with a sigh, almost collapsing on the couch beside his former teammate. He doesn't think he's ever spoken so much in his life, and now he doesn't have the energy left to beat her. Instead he cracks his knuckles, making sure he still has South's full attention. When she meets his eyes again, he growls out the one thing he knows will hurt her heart almost as much as he wants to hurt her body.

"I didn't have a choice. You did."


End file.
